


Duende

by collie



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, written for the slashababy christmas thing years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-23
Updated: 2003-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is the end really the end?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duende

Viggo is outside, lips wrapped around a cigarette, when he feels a hand creep up the back of his skull, heel and palm molded and cupping, fingers brushing over his newly shorn locks.  
  
"I don't like your hair." Orlando's voice, mouth to ear. Slightly drunken giggle and a whiff of something that makes Viggo's nose wrinkle as he turns his head just slightly, carefully  _(so as not to dislodge that hand)_ , crystalline blue eyes flicking sideways.  
  
"I don't like your breath," he mutters, unconsciously pressing back against Orlando's hand, lips curling into a smirk. "What have you been drinking? Smells like rotten licorice."  
  
"Jagermeister." Bit of a giggle then a clearing of the throat, and Orlando’s hand is still there, fingers moving absently. In the space of a breath, it's gone and Orlando is walking away. Viggo cannot help the soft chuckle that passes through his lips.  
  
These days, he will miss.

-

Orlando's head is pounding when he shoots awake, suddenly and quickly, and for a moment he is disoriented. Bleary eyes take in the dim room, and when he sees Viggo's horrid UK shirt draped over the back of one of the chairs, he doesn't even bother to check and see the face that belongs to the body beside him.  
  
Not that he couldn't recognize the scent of pricey imported cigarettes and fucking turpentine and the sun and sand on these rumpled sheets. How Viggo carries these scents with him, he'll never know, but he does, and Orlando is grateful for what he's had, even though he knows it's over.  
  
Over.  
  
He slips from the bed, shivering slightly as cold air hits hot flesh, and he resents the agreement that they have made. He hates endings, but this ending should be a beginning as well, and he supposes that he's alright with that.

-

"I didn't like you when we first met," Viggo voice sounds softly from the bed, and Orlando turns a bit too quickly, head spinning, clouded from last night's drinking.  
  
"What?" he murmurs, wrinkling his brow in confusion that Viggo has even spoken, and he takes slight offense to the words. "Why not?" He asks, ruffling, slightly defensive.  
  
Viggo slips his legs from beneath the sheets, the pristine white linen covering so discreetly that it appears to have been placed across his lap intentionally. "You reminded me of everything I missed out on when I was your age. Just, I guess, resentment. You know. I'm over it, now," he chuckles softly.  
  
And he stands, the sheet falling away, and Orlando has always had this strange respect for Viggo, who was never humbled by his own blatant nudity. "I'm going to shower," Viggo says, padding softly toward the bathroom. "Order breakfast?"  
  
The bathroom door shuts with a soft click and Orlando is left staring at it, nearly scowling. "Last meal," he mutters, wondering if Viggo even remembers.

-

They sit in palpable silence around the table, neither really eating, and Viggo's heart is heavy because of  _course_  he remembers. He always remembers these things. Viggo prods at a bit of egg with his triangle of wheat toast and wishes his ears weren't so cold from his shower, knowing that just last night he would have tossed his food down and grabbed Orlando, pressing his wet head to the boy's stomach, smiling as Orlando laughed and protested.  
  
But now things were different.  
  
Now, though they should be enjoying each other's company, he can't bring himself to move. He feels guilty.  
  
"Fuck this," he murmurs, throwing the uneaten toast on his plate.  
  
Orlando drops his head against his hand, fingers cold, moist from fiddling with a piece of melon he would never eat. "Viggo, come  _on_..." he whispers, staring up at the older man through eyelashes still clumped together from sleep.   
  
Viggo leans back in his chair, casting an unreadable look at Orlando, his only response a soft grunt.  
  
-

Viggo sits on the curb, watching the slow trickle of water sweep dry leaves by behind his bare feet. Like tiny boats, sailing away, off for grander adventures than he will ever take, and that makes his chest even tighter than it already is.   
  
He doesn't watch Orlando packing up the trunk of the taxi cab, but he can feel those accusing brown eyes branding him every time they sweep across his form. He knows that Orlando is waiting for him to jump up and tell him to stay, but Viggo clenches his hands on his knees and stares even harder at the leaf-boats, and he will not ask Orlando to stay, because it is time for this to end.  
  
The sounds of packing stop, and the driver-side door closes, but Viggo knows that Orlando is still standing by the trunk, hand on the door. After a breath he hears the trunk slam shut, anger and resentment reverberating through the still morning sky, and he lets out the breath he's been holding, feeling it shudder softly in his throat.  
  
"Bye, Vig," he hears Orlando mutter softly, blankly, as footsteps walk by and he catches the brief glimpse of a white Chuck Taylor All-Star, dirty and doodled on with ball-point pen, and he nearly reaches out and grabs that ankle, but no – sighs hard instead, nodding his head.  
  
"See you later," he whispers, and the back door of the cab shuts and Viggo can smell the exhaust as the taxi speeds away, and he says nothing, only moves his foot backward, crushing a leaf-boat as it floats by. The water is freezing cold on his skin as it wells up, and Viggo feels no guilt for his destruction, because he doesn't want anyone going on any more adventures if he can't go.

 -

In dreams, Orlando remembers Viggo's hands. Rough and calloused, nails jagged and biting; they feel amazing sliding along his flesh, lean, long muscles arching and yielding, and Viggo's voice is always like sex itself in his ears.  
  
Viggo's touch is always gentle but demanding; hot, open mouth all over his body, and fingers – hands and fingers everywhere. Tongue flicking at the hollow of his throat, chest sliding along sun-imprinted abdomen, thumbs pressing and stroking Orlando's hipbones while Orlando wordlessly begged to be touched with clutching hands and shifting hips and soft whimpers.  
  
Orlando whimpers now, twisting in his bed sheets, half-asleep as he feels the shock of cold air on his back when the sheets slip down his torso. He dreams of a larger figure, pressing warmly against him from behind, sending shivers straight down through his toes, and as his fingers clutch at his pillow, he can nearly feel Viggo with him.

-

Orlando jerks awake, sweat sheening on his brow, eyes desperately searching the darkness for the figure he knows he will not see.  
  
Unless, of course, Viggo  _is_  there, standing at the foot of Orlando's bed, casually spinning a lone key on a key ring around his right index finger. Though he is shadowed, Orlando knows the smirk on Viggo's lips and the glint in his eyes all too well.  
  
He always wears that same smug look when he's done something like this. Bastard.  
  
"The fuck..?" Orlando mutters, voice rough from sleep, sheets cold as they bunch about his hips and waist when he sits, staring bleary-eyed at the Viggo-shaped shadow. "How the hell'd you get in?" Though he immediately regrets his question, staring at the obvious key. "Where did you get that?"  
  
"You FedEx'd it to me," Viggo replies, amused. "The note said you were really drunk, first off, and then you went on about how much you missed me, and how good the scotch you were drinking was, and I figured since I was completely idiotic for making you leave, that I'd take this key as a sign and come on by to stare at you while you slept." Viggo pauses, shrugging slightly. "You weren't actually supposed to wake up."  
  
Orlando blinks, his addled brain trying to grasp the fact that Viggo is, actually, standing in his room. "Oh."  
  
Viggo snorts softly at Orlando’s obvious confusion and takes up the key, tossing it onto Orlando's bedside table where it makes a sound much too loud for this hour, and Orlando winces, reaching up to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
"Mind if I join you?"  
  
Orlando rips his hands from his eyes, jerking his head up at Viggo, brow furrowed in confusion. "Huh?"  
  
He feels Viggo's fingers suddenly, sliding along his temple, slipping through the bed-rumpled hair, and he can't help the soft sigh at the welcome and familiar touch. "You heard me," he says, and the bed dips as Viggo sits. Orlando smiles, sincerely, for the first time in a long while.  
  
"Yeah," he says softly. "Yeah, you can stay."


End file.
